The Revelator

by D W Bell

  “What if it’s a trick?”

  “Then the cosmic joke is on us.” Master Fu chucked John on the shoulder and both men snickered with fatalistic good humor.

  “Boudreaux’s gonna laugh his ass off.” John tittered in insulting mimicry of Boudreaux’s often girlish giggle.

  Assuming a booming tone of faux-philosophical seriousness Master Fu retorted, “Confucius say: ‘…He who laughs last, didn’t get the joke.’”

  ―

  The old transport sputtered up to the gate of Boudreaux’s compound, clearly surprising the lone sentry who came running from the warmth of the guard shack, still hitching up his cold weather gear. “Halt! Who goes there?” He dropped his rifle in the snow, quickly picked it up, and leveled it at the vehicle from the hip.

  Thrusting the packet of papers he had presented to the guard at the road block out the window of the cab, the driver of the truck began barking orders and waving forcefully for the gate to be opened.

  Bristling with the righteous indignation and tenuous bravado of one given a small amount of power over others, the sentry yanked the charging handle of his rifle to chamber a round, switched the selector switch to BURST, and spit a brown tobacco stain into the snow as a line that shall not be crossed. Raising the weapon to his shoulder he barked back, “I don’t speak no fuckin’ Korean. Is that our supplies?” He pronounced it KOH-reean.

  Inside the cab Master Fu shook his head in disgust, “Goddamn hillbillies. Boudreaux must be getting desperate. Scraping bottom of the barrel. Your turn, John.” With the nod of action from the director, John took a deep, centering breath and hopped down from the transport to play his part.

  “At ease, soldier!” Big smile, dark sunglasses, fake laugh, “We come in peace!” John stepped slowly but confidently into the headlight stage-lit space between the truck and the sentry, hands half-raised in the affect of one who knew he was in no real danger. “Got some crates in the back for you, but that’s not why I’m here.” He tipped his glasses down to give the kid an exaggerated wink.

  No longer threatened by the language barrier and emboldened by speaking to one of his own kind, the sentry lowered his weapon, “Why didn’t you say so? Who are you?”

  “Management sent me. I’m your new Training and Marketing Coordinator.”

  “You tell that slope to mind his manners, he almost got smoked. My granddaddy probably wasted his and all his uncles back in the day. And I’m all about family tradition.” Another brown stain spit onto the snow, this time eyes locked with the Korean driver to make sure he understood.

  “Sure enough, son,” John forced another smile, “but you might want to tone it down a bit. I got Master Fu up there in the cab, and he understands English.”

  “Master Fu? I thought he was just a legend!” The sentry suddenly turned into a kid excited to meet his comic book hero.

  “He certainly is that. But this is the real deal, in the flesh. It’s all detailed in the orders packet. You kids are in for quite a treat!” John laughed a salesman’s chuckle, “What say you open the gate and these boys can unload the truck while we go get warm and I’ll fill you in. Master Fu will still be in mediation for a while in the back. Best not to disturb him.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  ―

  It was true. Master Fu, and the late Master Lung, were warrior legend in the program. Their existence, and the folklore surrounding them, was integral to the mythos these kids were brainwashed with.

  The sentry had been absolutely giddy as he listened to John explain how theirs would be a test unit for a new strategy, directly under the tutelage of the legendary Master Fu. No more of this outdated “there can be only one” crap. They would all be tigers. It was with sad eyes that Smith smiled and lied, but it was necessary.

  John climbed back up into the cab of the truck that had been pulled broadside to the old parade ground. A few crates had been stacked around as a sort of backdrop for the demonstration. PA speakers that looked like they were from the 50s were setup to either side of the performance space and a scratchy tape of a classic kung fu soundtrack crackled statically across the empty stage. Master Fu sat cross-legged in the driver’s seat, eyes closed in meditation.

  John waited respectfully for the old man’s eyes to flutter open before he spoke, “Well, you were right. All the other units pulled out this morning in that convoy we heard about. ‘Even the comfort cootch’ to which the young man took great personal offence. These are just the rejects and dregs. Barely out of training.”

  “Unfortunate.”

  “Sifu…” John cleared his throat nervously. He knew it was futile to ask, but he had been a father, if not in blood as Boudreaux had revealed but he had performed the duties of a father. The emotional residue of that role made him see his children in some of the young faces of the men and women milling around on the edge of the parade grounds waiting to be called to attention. “Can nothing else be done? These really are just a bunch of misguided kids. They’re harmless without direction, and very susceptible to authority. Can’t we turn them around?” Master Fu closed his eyes again in contemplation without a word in response. John knew his plea had fallen on deaf ears, so he tried a different tact to buy some time.

  “Okay. If it has to be destruction, why not leave them to their own devices out here in the wasteland? It will be Lord of the Flies out here without supervision. They’ll be eating each other within a week!”

  “The Pack is a cancer. Every one of these cells is a tumor. In traditional Chinese medicine we prevent such disease by maintaining balance and harmony, but there can be no harmony here. This blight is grown too strong already, and too deeply rooted. No, we must utilize the Western approach. Cut out and burn out the cells wherever we find them, lest they gather strength and grow again, disrupting the balance of the body around them. A necessary purge. A purification.”

  “If you like, you can view this as their punishment here. Clearing their karmic debt for the afterlife in a short burst of suffering. By sacrificing them, we are saving them.”

  “If you say so, just doesn’t feel right.” John brushed the light dusting of snow from his collar and looked around the cab, “Where’s your nephews?”

  “Don’t feel. Much easier.” Master Fu uncrossed his legs and began to stretch in the driver’s seat. “They are preparing things in the back.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Like or not, the show must go on. And we all must play our part along the Way.”

  Chapter 30

  “Is this everyone?” John approached the squad leader who stood patiently at the edge of the stage area.

  “Yes, sir.” The young woman snapped to attention as she gave John her report. “The other platoons are still in stasis, but the barracks are controlled from off-site, so you will have to address them on their duty schedules.”

  “That should be fine. Thank you.” John looked around at the young and tough faces. Such a waste. “Form them up.”

  With a crisp about-face the platoon leader shrieked, “Fall in!” John watched as the unruly mob snapped instantly into a well-ordered formation: four squads, each with a leader out front. Old memories washed through his brain as the platoon leader demanded and was provided the status of each individual squad in a call and response as old as war. John recognized the ritual. Shit, it looks like most of these kids had wanted to be Marines.

  The young woman took her place at the head of her platoon and called out to John, “Mr. Smith! Berserker Company, Tyr Platoon all present and accounted for!”

  The nostalgia of the exchange made his heart ache, but there was nothing for it. What must be done, will be done. John would at least play his part well. “Very good. Execute the Plan of the Day.”

  Beaming, the platoon leader about-faced again, ordered the platoon to fall out, and directed her charges to sit/kneel/bend for a time of instruction. Clearing her throat, she made the introductions, “This is Mr. Smith. He is our new Training and Marketing Coordinato
r. Mr. Smith will be expanding on our earlier discussion of the changing roles of our unit.” Unable to suppress a smile in her own excitement, “And, I’m told, he has a little VIP demonstration lined for us! Mr. Smith, the class is yours.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” John turned to face his audience, “I am sure your squad leaders have done an excellent job briefing you on why I am here, and you’ll all get up to speed quickly as we move forward. But,” he paused for emphasis, “I am sure you are all more interested in the VIP she mentioned.” An excited murmur coursed through the group.

  “Secure that!” The platoon leader quieted the mob, even though she had to do so through her own excited smirk.

  “Thank you, again.” John paused to let them settle down. “You all know the myths and legends of our illustrious organization. Of the lethal dragon, Master Lung and the ferocious tiger, Master Fu.” It was apparent that Boudreaux’s lessons in showmanship had not been lost on John. “Well, boys and girls, I am here to tell you that Master Fu is without question a legend, but he is no myth. He is real, and he is here!” This time the collective gasp of the hundred or so troops went unsilenced.

  “This unit has been selected by upper management to be trained under the watchful eye of Master Fu himself. The work we do here will be a demonstration to the rest of the organization of what we are capable of.” John hated the irony of it, but the double meanings were lost on the listeners, they felt perfectly safe in their frozen isolation, and his words were fitting eulogy for Boudreaux’s minions.

  “I know you are all aware of the famous rumor of Master Fu’s art. That for generations the only time someone outside the family saw it in action was just before death, their own. As he will soon be training you himself, Master Fu has decided to treat you to a demonstration of the most secretive form of his art. The Heavenly Whipping Staff of the Vengeful Tiger!” A series of soft oohs and ahhs rippled through the young crowd.

  Seeing that he held them completely in his thrall, and a little disgusted with himself, John decided it was time, “Let the demonstration commence.” He signaled and the old speakers were silenced. Master Fu’s nephews struck up the lion dance music with traditional drum and cymbal from their perch in the cargo bay of the truck. “Please put your hands together for… Master… FUUUUUU!”

  It was as if the very ground shook when Master Fu leapt over the truck to land crouching center-stage in full Mandarin regalia to the throaty howls of the appreciative but doomed crowd.

  ―

  His speed and power were terrifying. Pure, controlled, cold aggression. His white waxwood staff flexed nearly double with some strikes, tip cutting the air with a piercing whistle. The old tiger performed the set in deathly silence, but the air roared with fury as it gave way around him. Master Fu was a kung fu god.

  The adoring audience was transfixed by what they were seeing. Even those with the most basic martial knowledge could see that Master Fu was the pinnacle of what was possible through training, and they were ecstatic with thoughts of their own potential under his tutelage. Master Fu finished his set, saluted, and bowed curtly to his charges.

  But John knew they had reached their peak with this performance. This was the final lesson. He marched solemnly to his post to do his duty. Striking a match, John lit the fuse to the firecrackers traditionally meant to dispel evil spirits.

  At the signal to strike up the band, the musicians unveiled the instrument of the fatal finale. With his assistant feeding the belt of rounds into the weapon like spooled sheet music to a malevolent calliope, the undercover ROK Marine depressed the butterfly-shaped trigger keys and played them a song of his people. Beating the ground so all would dance. The old Russian Dushka cycled with the Devil’s rhythm until all revelers fell, exhausted from the terrible tarantella.

  “Jesus Christ, cousin!” John looked up in shock at the two men coughing in the blue-black gun smoke haze that filled the back of the truck. Shining, elated smiles the only bright spots within.

  The full-auto virtuoso shouted back in heavily accented English as his cough subsided, “ROCK AND ROLL!” and threw his right hand up in the heavy metal devil horns.

  “Fuckin’ A.” John turned as the men began to dismantle the weapon and saw Master Fu with his back to them, leaning on this staff, gazing at the carnage he had wrought.

  ―

  “What about the others? Or were you planning a matinee for when they wake up?” John stood with Master Fu trying to avoid seeing or smelling the pile of bodies that now burned where it had fallen.

  “No. We let them sleep. Nephew is setting charges.” Dispassionate as always, Master Fu’s voice was flatter than usual as he took a pull from his whiskey flask then, unprecedently, offered it to John. “Kills the smell a bit.”

  Shocked but grateful, John took a big gulp and passed it back. Gazing out at the orderly rows of hermetically-sealed Quonset huts, all dark but three that glowed with the red light of the gas stasis, he was struck how closely the squad bays resembled overturned longships. “Well, dying in their sleep they won’t see Valhalla, but they are getting a Viking ship funeral, of a sort.”

  They passed the flask again and Master Fu emptied it with a long swallow, “That’s the spirit, John.”

  “Where do we go from here? I suppose nobody connected to this monstrous program is truly innocent, but I don’t think we’ll get another shot at The Pack. Especially not just driving in the front gate with a truck full of explosives and crew-served weapons. That kind of thing tends to make the papers.”

  “You are probably right, but there is innocence worth saving. The mothers. We must save the girls.”

  “How are they innocent? Those bitches bear Boudreaux’s super soldier wet dreams! They are just as guilty as these dogs we’re putting down!”

  “No. The operators all had a choice, just like you did. Free will. Whether misled by Boudreaux and others or willfully ignoring the signs, they chose to do evil. The fault is their own. The mothers are forced into their roles. Their only fault is having a womb and complementary genetics.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That’s no surprise, but this is the only move we have left. The Pack is probably too spread out now for us to strike it directly again, and we have lost the element of surprise after this little show. The only way we can hurt Boudreaux now is to take his mothers.” The old man favored Smith with a wry smile, “C’mon, John. I would have thought you’d be all about rescuing damsels in distress.”

  “Fine. Whatever we can do to stop this madness. How do we find them? Nobody knows where those other units were off to, much less a bunch of women.”

  “It’s a mystery, but there’s always a Way.”

  ―

  The drive as they set out on the long road home was thankfully quiet and uneventful, leaving the stink of charred flesh and burning buildings behind them. Each man seemed lost in thought. Maybe reflection, maybe reverie, maybe revulsion, it was different for all. The guard at the roadblock was passed out drunk, so they lifted the gate themselves, signed the logbook as was required, and left him another bottle of soju anyway.

  “Pull over.” Master Fu’s low growl broke the silence that had been hanging in the cab like a fog since they had left the smoky remains of the base.

  “What’s wrong?” John nervously peered out the windshield trying to see into the inky blackness beyond the shine of the headlights.

  “Relax, pussy.” The old man gruffly chuckled, “I just have to piss.” All four men joined in for the forced laugh and alighted from the truck to stretch their legs and see to their own personal needs. They were all lost in the simple, universal, uniquely masculine pleasure of a good piss in the snow when a sultry female voice stopped them all midstream.

  “Master Fu! This is not the first time I have caught you with your pants down.” Lilith laughed musically as she stepped into the light from a direction they weren’t peeing, “Are you not a little old to be out late with your bros cruising for bitches?”<
br />
  The two ROK Marines quickly buttoned up, raised the muzzles of their sub-machine guns, and began barking at Lilith in Korean, but John motioned desperately for them to stand down. Confused, but obedient once reassured by a gesture from Master Fu, the two men lowered their weapons and waited for further orders.

  “Mistress! What a pleasant surprise. I am truly sorry you have come upon us in this indelicate moment. How may we humble travelers be of service?” Master Fu bowed deeply, clearly uncertain of the dragon’s game.

  “So charming as always, Master Fu. Hello, John.” Lilith smiled slyly at each man and then strode up to the grill of the truck and ran a finger across it disapprovingly, “You guys don’t have the money or the car to meet women this way. Have you tried going to church? Good boys like you might find the type of women you are looking for there.”

  “Church, mistress?” Master Fu was clearly perplexed, but knew he had to play along.

  “Oh yes. A man with vision can meet exactly the type of innocent girls he is looking for in church. Why, I have only recently heard that a whole bevy of young beauties have just joined worship at a holy retreat built by the late, great Lion of the Lord.” She made a face of concern, “Single mothers, you know. Just looking for redemption and rescue from their life of patriarchal enslavement.”

  Locking eyes with Master Fu and letting the statement sink in, Lilith turned to leave, “Despite their trials and tribulations they are not beyond salvation. Not exactly cliché wholesome southern girls, but you will find them in a sort of South. Like, Southern California.”

  Chapter 31

  “Like, Southern California.”

  It was no San Simeon, but it would do. Less Hurst Castle class and more Graceland tacky, the late televangelist’s former compound was still quite a place.

  The few fake flowers at the front gate had already begun to fade in the unrelenting sun. They were merely set pieces for the show. The pastor’s palace was much too far out of town, and the rumors too sordid, to illicit any impromptu memorial from the locals, but Boudreaux had ordered one anyway. Just enough to fill the view of the news cameras and frame the teary face of the mourning actress he had hired. In person, the display was ridiculously sad in its patheticness, when properly cut for broadcast it was heartbreaking in its exaltation.